Cold of the North
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: You think the Chaos gods are the worst things that reside at the northern tip of the world? Think again, foolish mortals. Think again...


**Cold of the North**

This was just plain humiliating.

It was this line of thought that weighed on Julial's mind as he and his kin were marched across the Northern Wastes. He was a Druchi. A corsair. It was his job to take slaves for Naggaroth, not fall into slavery himself. To be a slave of human Northmen, it was…disgusting. It was humiliating. And as one of the mounted savages cracked a whip over his back, it was slightly painful as well.

_Just you wait you filthy, savage-_

The whip cracked again.

_Oh to Khaine with you!_

It had been like this for days. One moment he'd been on the _Internment, _a corvette heading across the Sea of Chaos to meet with the Black Ark _Life Through Death_. The next, humans were attacking, his kin were dying, and by the grace (or cruelty) of Khaine, he survived the assault. Only to find himself in chains. Only to find himself marched through this wasteland. If it wasn't for the other slaves present, he might have thrown caution to the wind and run for it then and there.

A whip cracked. But it wasn't on him. Rather, it was an Asur up ahead. An Asur that had fallen down, a human cracking his whip as he lay in the dirt.

**Crack!**

The humans were shouting something. The elf just lay there. He kept lying there as they began kicking him. Walking past the weakling, Julial managed to get in a kick as well.

"I saw that."

The Druchi turned to the one who'd said those words.

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"You think I care whether you're surprised or not?" Julial asked.

"No. But what would I know?"

And with that, the other elf turned away. Cryptic, as ever. But what could you expect from an Asrai?

It was something Julial had noticed as soon as he'd set foot in the Northern Wastes. Something he was sure every elf of every kindred had noticed. All the slaves being unloaded…they were elves. High Elves, Dark Elves, Wood Elves, even elves that he couldn't identify but who smelt almost as bad as the humans escorting them. Probably lackeys who resided in the human kingdoms of the Old World. But it was a smell that Julial could ignore. Because not only did the savages smell worse, but he found his curiosity taking over. Why were elves the only slaves? Why were they being marched so far north? Why-

"Stop."

The column did. Julial included. Had one of the tribesmen-

"_Stop_," the voice came again.

He remained still. He looked ahead as one of the marauders rode up in front. His hair long, his body covered in piercings and tattoos bearing the eight-pointed star, and his face as ugly as that of a dwarf.

"Good."

And yet he could speak Tar-Eltharin, albeit a horribly warped version of it. Julial had little need for the old Assur tongue, but the dialect being the root version of Druhir, and whatever language the Asrai spoke, he supposed it made the most sense for it to be used.

"Look," the savage grunted, gesturing to the waste before them. "Your home."

Julial did look. He saw nothing. Nothing but dirt, snow, rocks, and more of the above.

_This is-_

And then he saw wooden buildings. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

_What in the-?_

The Druchi glanced around, his fellow elves all looking confused. What was this? Since when did the Northmen build permanent wooden structures, or at least, this close to the Polar Warp Gate? As primitive as these humans were, they were at least still recognisably human, which was more than he could say for those who dwelled further north than others. But this? This made no sense.

"You shall work here," the savage continued. "You shall sweat here. You shall bleed here. You shall make presents for the tribes of Men."

Said Men cheered. The elves didn't. Given the gibberish that the human was spouting, Julial couldn't blame them.

"And they shall worship me."

Julial looked at the savage. He dismounted from his horse. And then…something happened. Something apart from his tribesmen lowering their heads in a display of reverence. Something that involved his beard becoming whiter, his body becoming shorter and rounder, and…_clothes_, appearing from nowhere. Red clothes. A red hat. Boots. Even a pipe.

Julial wondered if he was going mad. Maybe this was a trick of the wastes. Maybe these humans were followers of Tzeentch, and were trying to fool their captives.

_But to what end?_

"Behold, the true god of the north," the now elderly man said. "Long have I awaited this day. To get my army of elves. To work in my workshops. To serve Man from this day to the end of days. To let me ride above the world, from the wastes of the north, to the kingdoms of the south."

Julial just stared.

"Behold your new master," the tribesman said. "Santa Claus."

* * *

_A/N_

_In an ideal world I would have posted this before December 25th, but since the _Warhammer _world is far from ideal, maybe it makes sense...or something. Anyway, Merry Christmas, have a good year, and spare a thought for all the elves toiling away in Santa's workshops. 0_0_


End file.
